Page 7 of Untamed
Sweeping my blonde hair over my shoulder, his jaw tightens and he looks away first, turning his head toward the bonfire. The sparks in the night light up his face, his eyes, and it’s clear that while his posture is confident, his eyes tell a very different story. They’re unapproachable.
I can’t help but think I know him. His face is familiar, but I don’t know for sure. There’s a lot of familiar faces in this field.
His eyes drift my way, his lips curving up as he leans casually to one side with a bottle of Johnnie Walker in his hand. I have an attraction to anyone who drinks straight from the bottle and doesn’t bother with a glass. I think it says something about their personality. No sense in messing with the glass. Just give it to me the way it is.
At first glance, the guy isn’t overly tall, but enough that he would hover over me if I were standing next to him or, better yet, if he were hovering over me say, in a bed, or in a field. He’s wearing a black T-shirt, loose around his chest but snug enough I notice the defined muscles in his tanned arms. His jeans impress me. They’re not tight like every other guy here wearing Wranglers. I don’t like tight jeans on men. If I see the outline of their dick, they’re too tight, buddy. But this guy, his dark jeans hang a little low, tightened by a gold belt buckle, a few holes in them and frayed at the ends. They meet a pair of dusty cowboy boots. With high cheekbones, strong jaw, plush lips, he could be a model. He’s that pretty.
He must sense that I’m staring because his eyes drift back to mine and he tips his cream-colored cowboy hat, but the expression fades quickly. I look over my shoulder to make sure it’s me he’s staring at. Behind me is a field of cattle so unless he’s winking at the horses and bulls, it’s definitely me.
A smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, flashing white teeth, but there’s a sadness about him I can’t place when he drops his gaze. I have an overwhelming urge to approach him, get him talking and comfort him, but I can’t. I’m not “that girl” who comforts men in that way. I’m the one they use to forget, not hash out their fears and demons.
By the whiskey in his hand, half-empty, it’s obvious he’s not here for the girls. He’s here to forget and that’s what he’s doing bringing the bottle to his lips every few minutes. He never flinches at the burn. It seems to me like it gives him the pleasure he’s looking for. I watch his eyes as they scan the field and stay on the pasture. The song “Daddy Never was the Cadillac Kind” by Confederate Railroad and it’s like he’s caught up in a memory there, one that keeps his stare on the field longer than I would expect.
More people have shown up, crowding the very edges of the pasture, but there’s about ten of us standing around the fire, some talking while others keep their eyes and voices silent, captured by a crackling fire and a sense of isolation from the rest of what this place offers.
Some nights this field is so loud I’m convinced you can hear the sound five miles away. Tonight’s not like that. With the sounds of Merle Haggard, there’s a laying-low ambiance to it I appreciate. Sometimes it’s nice to just be here and value not having to entertain or talk to anyone.
My attention returns to the man on the other side of the fire. He shifts his stance, his worn boots scrape against the dirt and gravel. It’s then it hits me. I finally remember how I know this guy.
He’s Grayer Easton, the rowdy Easton brother who left town four years ago and is now a professional bull rider. I’d let him wrap a belt around me and ride me any day.
That’s why people call you a slut, girl.
But thinking and doing are entirely different. When I glance up from my beer, his eyes catch mine and his smile draws me in first. It’s no longer boyish in the sense he’s a man now. He’s captivating. His smile tugs at the corners of his mouth and then fades, only to return a moment later when our eyes catch. With his hat tipped up, I’m offered a better look at his face. His nose is a tad crooked, probably broken a few times and even in the dark, his shocking blue eyes stand out. He certainly has a rugged sexiness about him I find insanely hot.
Despite the smiles thrown my way, because well, I am only half dressed after all and naturally, men look. This guy seems distant, never keeping eye contact or conversation long with the ones that make their way to him, no doubt a product of being recognized after returning home.
I don’t know the whole story behind the Easton brothers. There’s a lot who do, but being only fourteen and incredibly sheltered, I was too distracted at the time to know the truth behind them leaving. Or I didn’t care.
When he senses I’m staring again—because I am—his eyes return to mine and travel the length of my body with no amount of discretion. It’s like he’s decided to let me know he sees me and this could go somewhere.
Um, yes, I do.
Leaning against the truck in a relaxed manner, it’s pretty obvious he’s still trouble. I know for sure when I slide down off the tailgate and his eyes make another blatant pass over my body.
When I raise the bottle in my hand, our eyes meet, again and the shyness is pushed aside while his confidence returns. He knows he’s just been caught checking me out. Only he doesn’t care. I’ve been staring too, despite telling myself not to. Telling yourself to stop staring at a hot guy is something similar to telling yourself you won’t eat four tacos at dinner, only to eat six—overachiever here—or Nutella straight from the jar. Let’s face it, there are just some things we have no self-control for. Mine are tacos, because—obviously, and as stated above, Nutella. And now bull riders with ridiculous pretty blue eyes and a smirk that drops panties.
The crowd wanders, almost everyone finding their place to either get high or laid. Grayer looks around, his eyes shifting back to me. With a smile, he gives me a nod to his truck.
It’s an invitation.
Just as I’m about to go over to him, Haylee joins me on the tailgate. “This party sucks.”
“It’s not all that bad.”
She downs the beer in her hand and then reaches for another one beside her. “It blows. Let’s go.”
I nod to Grayer, trying to be subtle about my intentions. “I don’t want to just yet.”
Haylee’s eyes follow mine, disconcerted. She smiles. “Oh, damn, girl. He’s a hottie.” Grayer hears her, a soft smile on his lips. “Who’s he? I’ve never seen him before.”
I don’t reply, not because I don’t want her to know, but I’m not sure I want him knowing I know him.
I toss a quick glance back to him. “He’s not from around here,” I tell her, keeping my eyes on his. It’s when Joel makes his way over to us that I drop my gaze.
Joel bumps into me, knocking me into Haylee. “Sorry, didn’t see ya there.”
Blood rushes to my face. “Bullshit you didn’t see me,” I smart off, choking on my anger. “You did that on purpose.” Because he did and guess what? He knows he did.
